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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172775">Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing He Hadn’t Done [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:48:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The November air is cold as it stings Alexander’s nose. He wanders through the wet grass. It rustles under his feet as he drags his feet.<br/>—<br/>You do not have to read the other works in this series to understand this, but it is recommended</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing He Hadn’t Done [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I didn’t mean for it to take an entire three months for me to publish the next part but, the date was significant so... Anyway please enjoy!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The November air is cold as it stings Alexander’s nose. He wanders through the graveyard, wet grass rustling under his feet as he slowly takes step after step to the plot of land where Thomas’ body lay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks around, seeing the vibrancy of the grass contrast to the grayish-blue hue of the sky and admires it. While he still feels the all-consuming, gut-wrenching sadness that came from the loss of his one and only love of his life, the blindfold, known as grief that had covered his eyes had lessened. </span>
</p><p>Instead of living in complete darkness, he now saw the world in a purple tint--grief not any less stifling, still looming over his head, clouding his sight, but life had still moved on, and with it,  Alexander had been forced to follow. Despite the veil of grief, the world seemed a little brighter, a little more beautiful, than it had months ago. Perhaps it was God or Thomas telling him to move on.</p><p>
  <span>He had learned how to live with his grief--or at least, he had thought he’d managed to at least start the process of living again. The feeling never went away, but according to every other book and website about grief, that was normal. And for the other half of the sources that had been shoved in his face, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mon ami, you’re wasting away, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they had said that everyone dealt with grief differently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sweet scent of grass and earth fills Alexander’s nose, and he commits it to memory. The last time he’d been there, it had been almost a year ago, and he didn’t remember anything about it. About Thomas’ final resting place…  However, he promised himself that he’d catalogue every moment, every scent, every sound, every blade of grass. It hurts, taking in everything that he hadn’t before, but he does it anyway. He forces himself to. He must. Thomas deserves this much, for if Alexander cannot dote on him in life, he can at least dote on this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He counts the steps it takes to get to Thomas’ grave; it takes fifty-seven steps. Observes the names and dates on the different colored and shaped headstones. He notices the faint floral scent of the flowers in his hands--purple hyacinths, sweet and almost spicy, teasing his nostrils --mixing with the scents of other flowers scattered amongst other graves. He looks down, trying to avoid stepping on the headstones of other people who have been long since buried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he reaches Thomas’ grave, he stops walking. He looks at the headstone and the flowers already placed there. He swallows hard and sniffles, fighting back tears that threaten to fall. He shakes where he stands, knees weak but he manages to remain standing despite himself.  </span>
</p><p>The headstone is a black granite with gold accents, framing the epitaph--letters slightly lighter than the dark granite. </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In Loving Memory of</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thomas Jefferson </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Forever Loved, Always Missed, Never Forgotten</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>April 13, 1988 - October 23, 2019 </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander, having regained some control over his limbs, is about to fold himself into a crouched position on the ground, the back of his coat sitting on the tops of the wet grass. He brushes a hand over </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thomas</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the engraving tickling his fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry that I haven’t visited you sooner, my love,” Alexander whispers, pressing his fingers into the epitaph. The prickling heat that blooms in his fingertips from the pressure stings under the touch of the cold stone and icy air. His throat clogs up, and he wishes that he could have received some sort of response. It never comes. However, he clings on to the hope that he will at some point in time--it's the last piece of his sanity that he has left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites his lip, gnawing at the chapped, peeling skin. “I miss you. So, so much.  Sometimes it feels like I’m suffocating, I miss you so much. And then? And then? Then I realize that it's been a year. Only a year. Three hundred and sixty-six days… Yeah, it was a leap year this year. But you knew that. It’s why </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>know it. How on earth has it only been a year? How can it have only been a year since you were taken from me? It feels like so much longer…” Alexander takes a breath, his throat constricting around the knot that has formed in the back of it. He tries to swallow it and squeezes his eyes shut in misery. A single tear falls down his cheek. </span>
  <em>
    <span>More are soon to follow</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks absentmindedly. He looks up at the sky, looking for comfort but finding none.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels like an eternity has passed. And you have not been with me for that time. And it hurts. Because you should have been. We should have been engaged by now. We should have-- We should have...” He chokes on the lump in his throat that has pushed more tears into his eyes. He brings a hand up to his mouth and bites the skin in between his thumb and forefinger, trying to numb the pain of loss with actual physical pain. The tears spill down his cheeks in warm rivulets, coating his fingers too. He stops biting his hand and lets it cover his mouth. It muffles his next words. “You’ve missed so much… In such a short amount of time too… God. You’ve missed… You missed Dad’s--I mean, Sir--I mean Dad--I mean, Washington… He’s giving me more power in the company. Martha,” his voice cracks, “Martha just was diagnosed with cancer… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s still okay--she hasn’t… it’s relatively new, so she’s able to have a lot of treatment options… but like, she’s--” he cuts himself off short, shaking his head, while taking his hand away from his face. “Anyway… I have so much more to do. So much work, and many things to address. But, I know you know me well enough to assume that I’m ahead. Which I am.” He huffs out a laugh. “I wouldn’t not let myself be anything, but ahead. But I miss your visits. I miss you coming and screaming at me to clear my desk off of coffee mugs and then doing it yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander sits down, pushing his coat tails under him so that he doesn’t soak his pants with water. “You… you missed the wedding. It was beautiful. Eliza and Maria looked absolutely stunning. They were absolutely glowing with happiness. The service was lovely. I honestly don’t think that I have the words to describe it. But it felt… It felt magical. As if I was being transported somewhere far, far away from this place… from myself even,” He pauses, looking at the flowers still in his hands and on the headstone. He pushes the flowers that are already placed there away and off the stone, arranging them around the headstone delicately, then placing the hyacinths in the middle, in between Thomas’ first and last name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Despite everything. Despite the music and the laughter. Despite all the smiles and dancing. I couldn’t help but think of you. I couldn’t help but see you there. Obviously, you weren’t. You couldn’t have been. But I swear, I saw you there, standing in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>magenta</span>
  </em>
  <span> suit, perfectly tailored for you. Laughing and smiling with the rest of the crowd. You looked so handsome. I didn’t think that I could have loved you any more than I did at that moment. I thought I saw you on the edge of the dance floor and looking out into the crowd, wanting to dance. But you didn’t have a partner, so you stayed there. I thought I heard you playing your violin at one point… I thought of us. I thought of the wedding we could have had. I thought of all the silly, petty arguments we would have had regarding the music. Or the menu. Or the venue. Or the seating. Or even the damn flowers--” Alexander leans over the headstone and watches one of his tears fall down onto it. Falling right onto the ‘o’ in ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>October</span>
  </em>
  <span>’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, I wanted it. I knew then and there that I wanted every single one of those fights because at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>you would’ve been here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You would have been alive. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>with me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I wanted those fights because at least we would have had a wedding to plan in the first place… But despite all the fights we had, no matter how long or how loud we screamed at each other, we would have still found each other again. And you would’ve held me and told me that you loved me. I would have held you so close to me and whispered the same words back to you. My words would probably have been muffled by your shirt too. I wanted to be yours, not for as long as you’d have me, but forever. I would have fought for our love. I would have died for you. Not that that could do much now,” he laughs ruefully, tears leaving long, sticky trails on his face and neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have missed you for so long that I don’t think I know what it is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> miss you anymore. I missed you the very second I left our apartment early that Tuesday morning all those months ago. My heart won’t let me stop, Thomas. And it hurts. I want to move on. I want to live life. But I also don’t want to do it without you. I--I can’t. I always thought that we would always be around each other. No matter what the hell happened in the future. I thought that you’d always be there. Even if you weren’t the object of my infatuation. Or the center of my world. Or my entire world, at that--though, you always would be. You always </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be--I always thought that you would at least be hanging around the edges of the spotlight in my life. How could you not be? You’re such an obnoxious twat that you would always leave that kind of impression on my life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were it for me. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> it for me. I can’t move on and think that I’ll ever find someone remotely like you. Because only you are you. And I loved the man that you were. I still do. I won’t stop. I can’t stop. It’s too late for that. I fell so deeply, so madly in love with you, and I will never find another who could even think that they compared to you. There is a Thomas Jefferson shaped space in my heart and there will never be another that could take your place. My heart will never be satisfied. I will never be satisfied with a person that is not you. Perhaps it's cliche, and I know how much we both hate cliches, but I think… I think you are my soulmate. We fit together so perfectly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander’s shoulders slump forward, and with his hands bracing himself, fingers woven in the blades of grass, he presses his cheek to the granite of the headstone. It’s cold and icy against his skin, and sends a chill down his spine. He wishes that he could feel the warmth of Thomas’ skin in its place, but it’s an impossible wish. A tear falls from the corner of his eye, past his temple, and onto the headstone. He lifts his head and presses a kiss to the engraving of Thomas’ name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you. I’ll be with you soon. It’s only a matter of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands up, straightening his coat. Alexander dries his eyes and looks down, first at the purple flowers, then at Thomas’ name and the epitaph. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles, a twisted expression that isn’t even a remnant of joy or happiness. The flowers fit perfectly… They mean sorrow and beg for forgiveness. According to the Greek myth Thomas had read him in their bed a time that felt so long ago and yet, just like yesterday, Apollo made them when his lover was killed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels exactly that. He’s sorry. He’s sorry that he never visited earlier. The thought had always hurt too much, sparking a deep pain within him, cutting his heart into ribbons. He asks--no, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>begs</span>
  </em>
  <span> for forgiveness. Alexander knows he should have come sooner, and he wants Thomas to know that he didn’t forget. That he was selfish in not coming to honor his fallen lover…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flowers are perfect. Perfect in meaning and color. Alexander walks away from the grave, his heart in his throat, nausea swirling in his head, a foul taste in his mouth, tears falling down his face as he takes the same route at the same slow pace he came. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s only a matter of time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!!<br/>-J</p></blockquote></div></div>
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